


Losing Tomorrow

by ceruleanshark



Series: Mae and Fingon [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Grief/Mourning, Hurt No Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Post-Nirnaeth Arnoediad, Sad Ending, very slight fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-09
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2019-03-02 12:58:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13318605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceruleanshark/pseuds/ceruleanshark
Summary: Maedhros in the aftermath of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad.





	Losing Tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

> Terrible, terrible angstfic inspired by a post made by theweirdsadhobbitofbagend on Tumblr. A prequel to my fic Silver, which would probably serve as good brain bleach if this fic makes that necessary.

Fingon felt a twinge of guilt at the sight of Maedhros’ metal hand glinting in the starlight. The knowledge that he'd taken his lover’s sword hand weighed on him despite the more pressing issue of the war engulfing the land.

Even now, with Maedhros leaning against a stump and idly sharpening a knife with no difficulty, Fingon couldn't help but feel guilty for what he had done. He could remember every awful detail of the amputation, the blood and the awful sound of knife on bone. The worst part had been Maedhros’ agonized screams. They sometimes haunted Fingon's nightmares, the sound of his beloved’s torment preserved forever in the darkest recesses of his mind.

“You're looking at me strangely, Fingon. Is something wrong?” Mae's deep voice drowned out the faint chatter of the other elves in the encampment. Fingon met his eyes with a deep sigh, deciding it would be best to be honest with Maedhros.

“Mae, I'm sorry about what happened. With your hand. Every time I see that false one Curvo made for you, I feel so terrible and I wish I could make it up to you somehow.” Fingon stared at the ground, scuffing one boot in the dirt.

“It's okay, Finno. There was no other way.” Maedhros set aside his whittling and stood, stretching his arms above his head. He gave Fingon a reassuring grin. “You have already repaid me, many times over, by being here for me and always caring for me. I ask you to do it once more tonight.”

Fingon stood and took Maedhros’ hand, leading him into their tent. The flap hadn't fully closed before Fingon was kissing the redhead, leaning up and throwing his arms around his shoulders. 

“My love.” He whispered after they broke apart. “I will always be here for you, this I swear. You are mine and I am yours, forever.” Fingon grasped his shoulders and gripped tight, falling backwards onto their bedrolls and blankets. Maedhros’ hair swept forward in a red curtain, tickling Fingon's face as the pair kissed again and again, lying enfolded in each other's arms and losing themselves to their passion. 

That had been their last night together.

Now, as Maedhros rode frantically across Angfauglith, the memories of that night felt more precious than ever. He forced them back in his mind, trying to quell his rising panic. The temptation to ride faster and faster, until his troubles were gone, was overwhelming but Maedhros was forced to check his horses’ speed so he could properly look for Fingon.

He scanned the tangled heaps of bodies, praying to any Ainu that might listen that his beloved would not be among them.

“Fingon?” He called, voice cracking. Maedhros slowed his horse as he approached a smoking crater, not wanting the animal to fall on the unstable ground. Foreboding filled him, and his instincts screamed at him to turn back, to flee into the hills. 

Surely Fingon would be there in the forest, waiting for him. They'd spend a few days roaming the wilds, basking in each other's presence, taking a break from their daily struggles. This was how it always had been, and how it always would be. That had been one thing Maedhros could rely on. The promise of those days returning had kept him alive during his captivity in Angband.

Maedhros dismounted and half-walked, half-slid down the side of the crater, heart twisting as he noticed the fallen soldiers strewn about the pit. None of them resembled his cousin, however, which calmed Maedhros’ racing heart. Perhaps his instincts had been wrong. Perhaps he could walk out of the crater and see Fingon waiting for him.

Maedhros walked back towards the edge of the pit, but his foot hit something solid and he was sent hurtling off balance. With a curse, he fell to the charred earth. He hastily propped himself up to his knees and began to stand, but then his eyes fell on what he had tripped over. 

 

Maedhros was going to scream, he knew he was, but the sound wouldn't come out. His mouth gaped open and his eyes widened as he stared into Fingon's lifeless face. Maedhros had tripped over one booted foot and landed directly beside his cousin.

Fingon lay spread-eagle in the soot and ash, golden braids coming undone and mouth open slightly. His left eye was smashed but his right eye was wide and glassy, reflecting the starlight. A plethora of wounds gaped all over his body, blood and charred flesh grotesque even in the dim light. 

His limbs were twisted and beaten, sides burned into ash, his once-blue raiment now a bloody pulp. His shredded banner was trodden into the ground beside him, caked in his blood. How was there so much blood from one elf? Fingon was nearly unrecognizable.

Maedhros couldn't speak, couldn't move. He allowed himself to fall forward, palms pressing into the scorched earth beside Fingon's body. His mouth worked soundlessly as he struggled to speak, to apologize, to beg, to simply shout his pain to the uncaring sky, but he couldn't force the sounds out.

Instead, he pressed a barely-there kiss to his forehead, not caring about the blood, and slid Fingon’s remaining eye closed with trembling fingers. The silver ring in an inner pocket of his tunic felt so heavy, holding him anchored in place. For a moment, Maedhros considered leaving the ring with Fingon, but he had never accepted a proposal from Maedhros and it felt wrong to give him a symbol of an engagement that would now never happen.

Maedhros sat numbly beside his lover's body, sitting vigil for what felt like thousands of years. Tears pricked at his eyes, but did not spill. He felt numb, as if cast adrift in a void.

That was how his brothers found him. Maglor was the first to spot Maedhros kneeling in the pit, head bowed and hair concealing his face. He moved over to Maedhros hesitantly, boots sending up puffs of dust. Curufin was leading Maedhros’ horse, which had evidently wandered away while Maedhros sat with Fingon.

“Maitimo, come with me. He is gone, and we have other things to deal with. I'll miss him too.” Maglor spoke soothingly, but Maedhros merely trembled with grief and rage.

“Don't call me Maitimo. I'm Maedhros.” He snarled, standing on unsteady legs. Fingon's blood stained his hands and clothing. His eyes shone with anger, and a red glow had begun to ripple across his body.

“I'm sorry, brother.” Maglor whispered. Maedhros glared at him, aura shining brighter and brighter. “Whoever killed him will pay.”

Maedhros swept back towards Fingon, cloak rippling behind him. He knelt beside the love of his life, ignoring the cold hard ground against his stiff knees. He couldn't stop trembling.

“Why are you going back there?” Curufin called. Maedhros finally snapped at his brother’s words. He leaned forward and began to sob, burying his face in his hands. Tears spilled hot down his cheeks and between his fingers, and his throat burned.

Maglor whirled around to shoot Curufin a venomous look. “Shut up, damn you! Leave him be. He has clearly been through enough.” Maglor stalked towards Curufin, who took his brother's words as his cue to leave. Maglor climbed out of the pit and sat silently in the starlight, not wanting to leave his brother but feeling as though he was intruding on a private moment.

After some time, Maglor stood. “Maedhros, we have to go now. I know you are grieving, but come with me now.” Maedhros took several moments to respond, but finally he stood and approached Maglor. He reached down to help his older brother out of the crater, the metal of his prosthetic hand cold against Maglor’s skin.

Maedhros let his brother lead him off the field and to the camp. A low mist was settling in across the furrowed moor, mixing with the smoke from the still-burning fires. Maedhros ignored the corpses strewn across the field. He couldn't bring himself to care about any of them except a certain man with golden braids in his hair. The glow of rage had faded from his body, leaving him numb with grief.

He allowed himself to be escorted into Maglor's tent and wrapped in blankets. His younger brother sat beside him with a heavy sigh. Maedhros’ eyes were red-rimmed and his head ached. He wanted nothing more than to curl up in his bedroll and sleep until the pain left him.

“Is there anything at all I can do for you, Maedhros?” Maglor's voice was low, as if talking to a frightened animal. Maedhros shook his head silently. Maglor turned to leave, before a choked voice stopped him.

“I was going to ask him to marry me.” Maedhros whispered into the bedroll. Maglor stiffened slightly. “I'm so sorry.” He couldn't think of anything else to say. He couldn't possibly ease the hurt that had been inflicted on Maedhros by the death of their cousin.

Maglor crouched down to pull Maedhros into a tight embrace. Maedhros let out a low-pitched groan, voice raw. He was tense in his brother's arms, not relaxing the way he would if Fingon were the one holding him.

“I'm sorry. I miss him too.” Maglor said hollowly. He hated seeing his brother suffer so, with nothing he could do to prevent it. Maedhros twisted out of Maglor's arms and flopped down limply, burying his face in the bedroll. “You don't understand. I was going to ask him to marry me. I thought we could be happy.”

Maedhros stifled another sob. “I thought I could be happy. Why can't I be happy, Maglor?” 

Maglor shook his head. “I wish you could be. I wish I could bring you the joy you deserve.” He confessed, refraining from hugging Maedhros again despite his urge to.

“Can I do anything for you?” Maglor asked again. “No. Please, just leave me be.” Maedhros did not look up from the bedroll, voice muffled by the rough-spun cloth.

Maglor left, closing the tent flap behind him. Maedhros was too tired to cry or rage anymore. He simply lay still, trying to cling to his memories of Fingon. Perhaps if he slept, he would awaken beside his beloved. Fingon would kiss him gently as he usually did in the mornings, and they would lay in each other's warmth until their duties forced them to part until later that day. 

But there had always been a later, always a tomorrow, or a next month, or a next year. Now, there was nothing. Fingon had left him. 

Maedhros closed his eyes, memories of Fingon's voice and touch already fading. All his tomorrows with Fingon were lost, and no matter how hard he tried to imagine otherwise, reality had settled into his heart, cold and unforgiving and utterly inescapable. He could not allow himself to pretend anymore.

And so he laid in silence through the long night, trying desperately to cling to what could never be his again.

**Author's Note:**

> This hurt to write. Hopefully the angst is up to standard. Reviews always help!


End file.
